


Stuff Tippy Wrote - Check Please Edition (Volume II)

by tiptoe39



Series: Stuff Tippy Wrote (Check Please) [2]
Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: F/M, Friendship, Gen, M/M, One Shot Collection, Originally Posted on Tumblr, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-23
Updated: 2017-12-19
Packaged: 2018-12-18 20:43:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 17,822
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11882460
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tiptoe39/pseuds/tiptoe39
Summary: We hit 50 chapters on Volume I, so here's a new volume of one-shots of various flavors.Everything can be found over at stufftippywrote.tumblr.com.





	1. gift

Wrapping paper sits all around them, crumpled and torn and discarded. Scattered presents – little things, a book on the history of hockey in New England and a set of snowflake potholders and other knick-knacks – dot the floor here and there. And the tree glows above them, luminous with shining ornaments and multicolored lights. But all Jack knows is Bitty in his lap, legs folded around his hips, fingers drifting soft and perfect over his face. Bitty’s eyes are bright, his smile soft. His lips are a little chapped from cold mornings, but somehow the rough patches only make Jack more eager to taste them.

“Merry Christmas, sweetheart,” Bitty breathes, and in his voice is a little tremor of amazement.

Jack can’t disguise the smile that’s painted on his face. He doesn’t even try. “Merry Christmas, Bits.”

Bitty leans forward; their lips catch, those chapped bits rough on Jack’s mouth, everywhere else soft and unbearably sweet. Jack sighs, his hands on Bitty’s waist drifting upward, feeling the lean muscle of his back beneath his T-shirt. He’d chirped Bitty for shivering this morning, telling him he ought to wear a sweatshirt if he was going to be so cold, but right now he’s grateful for the thin cotton. The heat of Bitty’s body radiates out through it, warming his hands.

The kiss lingers, then fractures into a dozen smaller kisses, Bitty nibbling at Jack’s lips in a tantalizing flurry of soft and warm that starts a fire deep in Jack’s gut. He shifts under Bitty, smiles into the kisses when Bitty feels him and gasps. “Oh,” Bitty murmurs into his mouth, “sweetheart.” Jack groans at the sound of it, groans louder when he feels Bitty hardening against him. He opens his mouth to the kisses, and swipes his tongue against Bitty’s lips, smoothing down the rough patches. Bitty’s lips slip open. They shudder together at the sweet-tart thrill of their tongues together.

The T-shirt is too much all of a sudden. Jack grabs the hem and pushes upward. Bitty breaks the kiss and leans back, letting Jack pull it over his head and off. He presses in close then, sighing and pressing kisses soft like snowdrifts against Jack’s jaw as Jack’s hands roam over his skin. Bitty may have _felt_ cold this morning, but he _is_ warm, almost hot to the touch as he arches into Jack’s touch and lets loose a soft tenor groan. “Jack,” he murmurs, his voice like honey against Jack’s ear. His weight presses Jack backward, tilting them both toward the breaking point of their balance.

Jack lets it break. He falls backward, landing heavily on the floor, and Bitty leans down over him, kissing mouth – neck – collarbone with ardent lips. The wood is cool against Jack’s back, but Bitty’s body is shockingly hot. Jack lifts his hips, hears Bitty gasp, gasps himself in answer. Wrapping paper crinkles against his ankle. He bites down a laugh and kicks it away.

“Oh, honey,” Bitty breathes. His hips press down, insisting. Jack’s  control frays. He presses back up, surging against Bitty, hard against hard. They both gasp.

“Maybe…” Jack breaks off, bites his lip as Bitty sucks at his shoulder. “Maybe we should go back to bed, eh?”

Bitty kisses trails kisses back up his neck to his mouth, lingers there for glorious seconds before answering. “No,” he murmurs, “no, honey, I want to unwrap you right here.” His fingers inch under Jack’s sleeves.

A thrill shudders its way through Jack. _Unwrap._ Like Jack’s a gift. He’s never thought of himself like that before. But Bitty – God, Bitty’s looking at him now with hunger, and awe, like Jack’s the most generous present ever offered. Jack’s never wanted so much to be unwrapped, to be devoured by that ravenous stare. And he’s never wanted to give of himself so completely. He can be this for Bitty. He can be the object of desire, and he can let go and offer himself up and be loved and appreciated. _Yes._ He wants that. He wants to be that for Bitty, this Christmas morning and tomorrow and forever.

“Okay.” He smiles and sits up, lifting his arms so Bitty can work off his shirt. “Okay, Bits. Unwrap me.”


	2. right there

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From a prompt. Jack gets night sweats because of his medication. He did not consider this until Bittle was already asleep in his bed.

It’s August, and maybe Jack can blame it on that.

Because it _is_ hot out, and they _are_ still holding each other, albeit lightly. Bitty’s arms are snaked around his back, Bitty’s face gentle against his chest, and Jack’s leg is slung over Bitty’s thigh. So maybe, maybe if Bitty wakes up, Jack can say it’s just the heat, and get away with it.

But no, no he can’t. No, he wouldn’t. He’s never lied to Bitty and he’s not going to start now. As embarrassing as this is.

He can’t believe he forgot about it. How stupid can he get? But he had Bitty in his arms and in his bed for the first time, and afterward they were so happy and so sleepy, and before Jack could even pull his boxers back on Bitty was asleep in his arms. So what could he do? He closed his own eyes and let sleep take him.

Stupid, stupid. Dumb. He never should have. He should have placed Bitty on the pillow next to him and rolled over onto his own side and made sure there was plenty of room between them before falling asleep.

Now he’s stuck. Stuck with a (warm, wonderful, welcome) boy in his arms and  sweat _everywhere._

Sweat rolling down his face. Sweat beading on his thighs. His chest damp with it. His hands clammy with it. Bitty will wake up half-drowning in it all, and there’s nothing Jack can do.

Jack fights to breathe. He’s not going to panic, not about this. Bitty will understand. Bitty has always understood. Everything about Jack. His anxiety, his past, his everything.

But he’s never known just how _disgusting_ Jack gets in the middle of the night. What if this is too big of a turnoff?  What if Bitty says, “Sweetheart, I love you, but I’m sleeping on the couch tomorrow”? Jack thinks he’ll die of embarrassment. What’s more, it’ll break his heart when he discovers he’ll never be able to wake up next to Bitty again. He’s been looking forward to it for so long. And now he’s ruined it, the very first time.

Oh, God, now Bitty’s stirring. Jack holds his breath, holds very, very still, and waits for Bitty to wake up fully..

He does. He pulls himself free, rolling onto his back, and wipes his face. (God, has Jack sweated all over his _face_?) “‘S hot,” he murmurs.

“I’m sorry,” Jack says, before he can think to say anything smarter.

“Hm?” Bitty blinks at him, squinting in the dimness. “Not your fault it’s hot.”

“I’m sorry,” Jack says again.

“Honey–” Bitty pats Jack’s chest absently, then lifts his hand. “Oh, you’re a mess.”

“I know.” Jack wipes his own face. “I know, I’m sorry, Bits, I should have told you.”

“Told me–” He yawns. “Told me what?”

Jack peers at him in the darkness. Is Bitty even awake? Will he even remember this in the morning? Maybe… maybe he won’t. The thought is heartening somehow. Maybe Jack can _practice_ telling him now, and then then they’re both awake, he can tell him for real. “I, ah–” he can do this. It’s just _practice_ – “I sweat a lot at night. It’s– it’s my medicine. I should have told you earlier, but I didn’t think of it.”

“Oh.” Bitty says with another yawn. “Okay.”

“Okay?” It may be the one word Jack wasn’t expecting to hear.

“Sure, honey.” Bitty pats his chest again. “We’ll shower in the morning.” And he leans his head against Jack’s shoulder.

“But–” Jack does not comprehend Bitty’s reaction in the slightest. Asleep or no, doesn’t he want to at least pull away? Sleep on the far side of the bed? But Bitty seems very content to have his head buried against Jack’s shoulder, arm draped loosely over Jack’s waist. Sweat or no sweat.

“‘S okay,” Bitty mumbles into his skin. “Wanna wake up next to you, sweetheart.”

Jack wipes his sweaty palm on the sheet behind him, then lifts his hand to Bitty’s hairline. The sweet softness of skin and hair whispers against his fingertips. “Okay,” he says, willing himself to relax. “Okay.”

“‘Kay,” Bitty mumbles. “Back to sleep.”

A moment later, his breaths have evened out. Jack stares into the darkness, trying desperately to wrap his brain around the situation. Bitty’s not grossed out. He’s not turned off. He’s _right there._

What on earth did Jack even do to deserve him?

He closes his eyes and falls back asleep still pondering that question. In the morning, they’re both sorely in need of showers, but Bitty’s _still_ right there.


	3. try "friends"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> prompt was: ransom & holster being protective of bitty.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw: bullying, homophobic language

It starts on the ice. The jerk from BC can’t keep up with Bitty. He knows it, and Bitty knows it, and by the time Bitty’s on the breakaway and shooting past the glove of the BC goalie to tie it up, everyone in the stands knows it too. The BC crowd, bloodthirsty as ever, boos their own guy. He gives them all dirty looks, and after the next faceoff, he blatantly trips Bitty hard. It’s only the ref’s quick shuttling of the bastard – Mason’s his name – to the box that saves him from getting to be the filling in a Ransom and Holster knuckle sandwich.

But the shit really hits the fan after the game. Bitty’s showered and changed, and he’s heading out a couple of steps ahead of the rest of the crew. He likes the scenery here, and he kind of wants to walk around the BC campus a bit before he’s got to head back to the bus. He sent tape here too, even though Samwell was his first choice, and he really does enjoy the look of the place, even though he’s so happy where he is.

And then he’s facing down a gang of hockey goons, like something out of an ‘80s movie.

They loom menacingly over him, big old sacks of meat, and Mason stands in the center, arms folded over his chest.

“You fucking pussy,” he says.

Bitty bites down a Shitty-learned retort about the relative strength of the female genitalia. “Excuse me,” he says instead, and tries to walk around them and by.

Mason’s not about to let that happen. “How the fuck did you get on a fucking hockey team?” he says. “You’re a midget.”

“Listen,” Bitty says, “I don’t want any trouble with y’all.”

“Y’all,” one of the goons mocks.

“Ain’t that cute,” says another one.

Mason reaches out with both hands and shoves Bitty in the center of the chest. Bitty stumbles backwards. “Goddamn fucking midget pussy,” he says, and advances. That old familiar panic is starting to rise in Bitty’s throat. He made it through the game – he got back up when he hit the ice after that trip – but he doesn’t know if he can handle this, not after looking over his shoulder that whole game, not alone.

Good thing he isn’t.

Ransom and Holster come around the bend and are bracketing him in a hot second, Holster towering, Ransom shouting. “You got a fucking problem?” 

“My problem’s not with you, hot stuff,” Mason shoots back. “It’s with your midget pal.”

“You fuck with Bitty, you fuck with all of us,” Holster says, stepping forward to stare down Mason – and it is _down_ , because Mason’s maybe 5′10. 

“Don’t make us punish your ass like we did on the ice.” Ransom puts a hand on Bitty’s shoulder as he says it. There’s a thousand things in that touch – concern, reassurance, protectiveness – and Bitty’s heartened to feel it. He looks up at Ransom, who’s still staring daggers at Mason and crew. 

“On second thought,” Holster says, cracking his knuckles, “go ahead. Make us.”

Mason looks from one to the other and back again. Sizing them up. Measuring. Bitty hopes he’s calculating the impact of a 6′4″ dude’s knuckles to his face. 

Whatever he’s doing, he decides it’s not worth doing more. “Fuck this,” he says, and turns on his heel. He leads his goon squad off, turning back only at the end of the path to yell “Fuck you guys!” before stomping off toward one of the bulidings.

The minute he’s out of sight, Ransom and Holster both turn to Bitty. "You OK, Bits?” Ransom says. “That fucker didn’t scare you, did he?”

“He – no – I’m fine,” Bitty manages. But he’s shaking a little, and Ransom’s hand is still on his shoulder so Bitty _knows_ he feels it. “I was fine,” he protests. “Y’all didn’t have to…”

“Bitty.” Holster looks at him sideways. “This is what we’re here for.”

“Still,” Bitty protests weakly, “I’m a man, too, I could have handled–”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Holster declares passionately. “Hold the fuck up. Hold the fuck up, Bits.”

“Nobody was saying you weren’t a man, bro.” Ransom squeezes his shoulder. 

“We all got our strengths,” Holster says. “When it comes to getting that puck down the ice, or making shit-tons of pies, we all depend on you.”

“But when it comes to facing down fuckheads with shit for brains,” Ransom says, “that’s our department.”

“It’s okay to lean on your bros once in a while.”

“Let us be there for you, eh, Bits?”

It’s too hard to keep up the brave act in the face of that kind of encouragement. Bitty sniffles hard as a sob threatens to come to his throat. “Y’all are the _best_ captains – I mean, bros –”

“Try _friends_ ,” Ransom suggests.

Bitty swallows the sob and beams at him. “Yeah. The best _friends_ I could ever hope for.” He turns to Holster. “Thank you. Thank you both.”

“Thank us in _pie_ ,” Holster says, and slaps him on the back so hard Bitty coughs. Ransom snorts a laugh. Together, they meander back to the bus. The scenery here may be nice, but they all agree that the hospitality could use some work.


	4. things you said when i was crying

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a little post-art-show Shitty/Lardo preromance.

_(set after the junior art show.)_

Shitty finds her out on the back steps of the building, sitting on the steps with her shoulders shaking. The night’s cold. She jumps a little when the door closes behind him, but doesn’t turn.

“Lards?” he says carefully.

She sighs. Her shoulders ease, then rise and fall as she takes a long, steadying breath.

“You okay?” he ventures.

“Yeah,” she says immediately. Then, “No. Shut up. No, I’m not okay.”

He sits down on the stoop next to her. “Okay,” he says. “That’s okay, you don’t have to be okay.”

She says nothing. He wants to touch her – her shoulder, or her knee, some kind of comforting pat – but he keeps his hands folded in his lap, too unsure to do anything besides be there. “I’m here if you wanna talk about it,” he says after a beat.

She still says nothing.

So he says nothing, too. He sits there and waits and doesn’t touch her, just gives her time. The night wind beats against them, raising goosebumps under the sleeves of his jacket. Inside is warmth and art and food and drink, and outside there’s just the two of them and a naked lightbulb buzzing above. Still, he wouldn’t go back inside right now for all the money in the world. She needs him. He doesn’t know why, but he knows it’s true.

Eventually she mumbles, hoarsely: “It’s not fair.”

He waits. There will be more.

“This was supposed to be my night,” she says. “Tonight was supposed to be about me. Why’d this have to happen now?”

A twinge of guilt assaults his heart. “Oh,” he says. “Okay. You’re pissed. Fair enough.”

“No, it’s not,” she says bitterly. “It’s not fair. I mean, I’m not being fair. You can’t help when you get the news. Sorry.”

“No,” he says. “No, I totally get it.”

“It’s not why I’m mad,” she says. “Not really.”

“Oh. Okay.” He pauses. Should he ask? “Then why–”

“I don’t know.” She bursts over into a fresh flood of tears. “I don’t fucking know.” The last syllable extends into a wail, and she folds over, head against her knees.

He watches her cry, feeling helpless and useless. What can he possibly say to that? “Um.”

She sobs for another minute, then fights to control her breath, taking in huge gulps and letting the air come out slow and shuddering. “I mean,” she starts, then has to breathe a few more times before she’s ready to go on. “I mean, you’re gonna be close.”

“Yeah.” Now he does touch her back with one spread hand, light pressure for a moment.

She straightens up again, sniffling. “You’re gonna be like twenty minutes away. I can take the shuttle anytime and go in and see you.” There’s a smile in her tone, that weak smile that’s only ever halfway managed through tears. “You’re gonna have to get rid of me.”

“Never,” he protests, the same half-smile in his own voice.

“I just–” She shakes her head, gives a little tear-soaked laugh. “You actually got in.”

“Hey. You don’t have to sound so surprised.”

She laughs again. “I’m not! I’m not, just– it means it’s really happening. You’re graduating, you’re leaving.”

He owes her another noogie for that, but now’s definitely not the time. “Not yet! We still have a couple of months.”

“Yeah, but now it feels real,” she says. “I don’t want this year to end, Shits. I don’t want things to change.”

He understands this. He understands it well. It’s in his heart too, like a little pinching clamp in his chest. He ignores it most of the time, but right now it aches, both with sympathy and with his own dawning understanding of the reality of it all. This life is drawing to a close. A new chapter’s starting, and it’s just a matter of time before his everydays change. It’s scary. Exciting, too, but there are things he doesn’t want to lose.

“Everything’s just so good right now, you know?” she says. “It’s you and me and the boys and things are good.”

It’s like she can see directly into his mind. Not the first time. They tend to think in sync lately. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, I get it.”

“And you and I are just–” She wipes her eyes. “Good. We’re so good.”

It’s true. The simplest words in the world, but so true. “I know.”

She hasn’t looked at him this whole time, but now she lifts her head and turns. Her eyes are dark and glittering, her cheeks wet with tears. The yellow light above casts a gleam on her hair. He aches, looking at her. He feels the pressure of words unsaid against his tongue.

He doesn’t have the strength to fight them. They slip right out. “Hey, Lards,” he says. “You know I love you, right?”

She goes very still. Her lips part.

“I just…” He shrugs. “I just want to make sure you know it.”

She blinks at him another few seconds before taking in a breath to speak. “What does that mean?” Her voice quavers.

“It means…” He searches for more words. “It means I like the way we are together. I like the person you are, I like the person I am when we’re hanging out. I like us. You’re my best bro and I’d do anything for you. I just want you to know that.”

“Oh.” She wipes her eyes quickly and sniffs. “I thought you meant…”

“Maybe I do,” he says, before he can think better of it.

The bulb above them flickers. In its light, the words seem to gleam in the air between them.

“Um,” she says. Her teeth worry the edge of her lower lip.

He fights for more words. “I mean, maybe I do and maybe I don’t. I don’t know. All that’s so fucking complicated, you know? But just loving you’s simple. So I don’t know about all the rest of it, but for now I just want you to know it.”

She takes a deep breath, sighs it out into the night. “Thanks, Shits.” A wan smile lights her lips. “Love you too.”

The words make his heart trip over itself. He tries to ignore it. “You ought to go back in,” he says. “Wash your face, then keep showing everyone your work. It’s your night.”

“Yeah,” she says, turning up her nose. “Why’m I wasting it out here with you?”

“Exactly.” He winks and gives her a thumbs up.

She laughs, blinking away a few errant tears. They catch the light, igniting tiny stars on her cheeks for an instant.

And as complicated as it might be, figuring out what love means, in that moment he understands it just that much better.


	5. the flip side of never

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bitty has a bad dream, and some doubts.

It’s dark and it’s late, and Bitty wakes up from a nightmare with the chills. He sits up in bed, shivers, and looks around him.

The apartment is its still, silent self. Blue curtains hang heavy at the fringes of the windows. Providence glitters through the panes. Next to him, Jack sleeps soundly, shoulders and chest rising and falling beneath the bedclothes. He has practice in the morning, and Bitty should really just leave him be. But the shiver is still vibrating in the base of Bitty’s spine. He closes his eyes, remembers the nightmare, and sighs resolutely.

Worming his way back down under the covers, he leans heavily against Jack’s side. “Hey,” he whispers.

Jack’s breathing stutters. He makes a soft, guttural noise.

Bitty tries again. “Hey, honey.”

Now Jack comes fully awake, turning on instinct to slide his arm around Bitty. “You okay, Bits?” When Bitty doesn’t answer, he presses further. “What is it?”

With a sigh, Bitty nestles into his embrace. “Nothing, really,” he says. “I just sort of wanted.. to hear your voice, I guess.”

“What happened?” Jack’s voice is less languid now, more alert and concerned.

“I just had a silly dream,” Bitty confesses.

Jack’s silent, waiting for him to go on. How he always knows – when to speak, when to say nothing – is beyond Bitty’s comprehension, but Bitty’s glad for it nonetheless.

“It was my parents,” he says. “They were mad at me for … for some stupid reason, I can’t even remember what it was. But then you came in and you saw they were mad, and you said–” Bitty swallows hard. “You said, ‘If they don’t approve of you, how can I?’ And you left.”

“What?” Jack’s voice rings out too-loud in the quiet room. “Bits, that’s horrible. I would _never_.”

“I know, I know,” Bitty assures him.

“It was a dream,” Jack insists. “I’d never.”

“I know. Just a dream.” But the memory of the dream feels so real now, the cold faces of his parents and the drop of his frozen heart into his boots when Jack turned his back…

He stiffens in Jack’s arms, and Jack sighs and folds him tighter into an embrace. “Come here,” he murmurs. Bitty allows himself to be gathered up, and he presses his face into Jack’s chest and listens to his heartbeat. Above him, Jack whispers a litany of soft, steady comfort. “I’m here,” Jack tells him. “I love you. I’m here. I’m with you no matter what.”

“Thank you,” Bitty whispers into Jack’s chest. “Thank you, honey.”

“Of course.” Jack kisses Bitty’s forehead, a long press of lips that finally fades away. Bitty feels it like a lantern in the dark, spreading warmth through his body. Jack’s kiss blesses him, and the weight of the dream lifts from his shoulders.

When Bitty’s ready – and it takes him more long, long moments before he’s ready – he pushes back onto his side of the bed and lies on his back, looking up at the ceiling. “I should get back to sleep,” he says.

Jack layers his hand over Bitty’s, under the covers. “Dream of good things.”

He says it like an order. Bitty’s lips twitch. “Yes, sir, captain.”

Jack chuckles. “Good night, Bits.” He squeezes Bitty’s hand and closes his eyes again.

The sudden sink of his heart surprises Bitty. He didn’t expect this feeling, like the moment Jack’s eyes closed, he’d been left alone again. But here it is, and he’s all at once full of sorrow. He peers through the darkness at Jack, wishing for something he doesn’t have the name for. Maybe for Jack to wake up, hold him again, hold him all night if need be. _Silly. He needs to sleep. And if you do need him, wake him up again. But really, go back to sleep, Eric Bittle. Honestly._

But he doesn’t. He stares at Jack, then up at the ceiling, and feels like a puzzle with a missing piece. He inhales. Exhales. Tries to figure out what remains unsaid. He doesn’t know, but he knows it needs saying.

“Jack?” he finally whispers.

“Yeah?”

Thank goodness, he’s not asleep yet. Bitty clenches a fist and listens to his own words as they tumble out. “If things don’t work out. With my parents. I mean, if when I finally tell them they don’t– if it doesn’t go the way I–” He heaves a sigh. “Just… please don’t leave me.”

Jack turns onto his side. He lifts his hand to cup Bitty’s cheek. His eyes shine bright in the darkness. “Bitty,” he says. “Never. I’m never going to leave you.”

It’s a promise neither of them knows if he’ll keep. The future is a dimly lit, faraway door that Bitty’s scared to walk through. _Never_ is a silly word, in the face of so many uncertainties and what-ifs, because the flip side of _never_ is _forever_ and _forever_ can’t be promised.

But looking at Jack right now, Bitty can believe that _Jack_ believes in it. And maybe that’s all _forever_ needs – two people who believe in it and refuse to stop.

Certainly, it’s all Bitty needs right now.

“Thank you, sweetheart,” he says, and closes his eyes.


	6. surprising your boyfriend like

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> based on Bitty's tweet.

Bitty doesn’t like lying to his boyfriend. It’s not his style. If anything, he’s honest to a fault. It’s not his speed to perpetrate deceptions, much less relish him.

Oh, but this… this is really kind of fun.

When he first tells Jack he’ll be heading home for Christmas, Jack is visibly disappointed. His face falls, and he heaves a sigh before mustering up his stoic face and telling Bitty “I hope you have fun.”

Bitty feigns concern. “Oh, now, what will you do? I know you’re playing on Christmas Eve day, so I suppose you can’t go home to your parents’.”

Jack shakes his head. “I’ll make do. I’m sure someone on the team will have me over.” But the sad glisten in his eyes is almost enough to make Bitty break down and confess right there.

Almost.

Bitty is actually afraid he’s being too obvious at first. He throws in a little something in each phone call about his plans for the holiday with Mama and Coach. He makes up a time for his plane tickets back to Georgia (wouldn’t you know it, right when Jack is playing, so he can’t drop him off.) He even makes a point, when Jack’s confiscated his phone until his paper’s done, to mention how very much he’s looking forward to Aunt Judy’s jam. (This is actually the family-drama jam, and Bitty shouldn’t have mentioned it, because won’t Jack notice he’s apparently switched sides in that debate? Oh well, too late.)

Meanwhile, he emails Mama and Coach and apologizes furiously that he can’t make it home this year, but Samwell Hockey needs him, darn it. (Not untrue.) And he lets Jack know he’s sent him a present, and that it should be arriving close to Christmas. Jack’s curious, but doesn’t press.

And when Jack’s given back his phone and headed back to Providence for Game One of a holiday homestand, Bitty starts packing his bag.

He’s vibrating during the whole train ride on the 20th. Part of him is panicking. What if it all goes wrong? What if Jack’s routine is upended by his presence? The last thing he wants to do is cause Jack more anxiety than he was expecting during this time. But he knows Jack – so well – by now, and it’s hard for him to believe Jack won’t be happy to see him. He’s more worried that Jack’s figured it out somehow. Just to prolong the illusion, he sends Jack a text.

**me:** _Packing to head home for a few days!_   
**Jack:** _Enjoy the warm weather._

A beat later:

**Jack:** _I’ll miss you._

Bitty hugs his phone and squirms in his seat. _Oh, Jack. No, you won’t._

By now, Bitty knows his way from the train station to Jack’s apartment. He directs the cabbie through the snowdrift-laden streets and finally has him pull over a few doors down from Jack’s building. Lifting his bag onto his shoulder, he presents the cabbie with a tip and a “Merry Christmas!” and trudges the few hundred feet remaining between him and Jack.

The doorman knows him by now. The elevator takes too long.

Just before ringing Jack’s bell, Bitty pauses one more time. This could all go very wrong right here. Jack could be out. Or he could have company. Someone who doesn’t know about Bitty, someone Jack has to cover in front of. Oh, but the ways it could go right are so much more appealing, and Bitty takes a moment to anticipate. He licks his chapped lips, takes a breath, and presses the doorbell.

There’s a moment of silence, a moment of whirling doubt.

Then footsteps, then the door opens, then–

Jack’s face is slack, frozen a moment. In the next moment, his jaw drops. Then he blinks. He says nothing.

“Surprise?” Bitty says, and the word comes out tentative, almost fearful. Oh, God, what is he nervous for? He and Jack are solid. Jack’s not gonna send him away. Right?

Jack still barely moves. He flaps his jaw a second time. Somehow he manages to squint, and spit out a “Bits?”

“Yeah!” Bitty shrugs and grins at him. “Um, surprise, it’s me. I’m the present.”

“You’re the–” Jack shakes himself and rubs his eyes. “You were going to Georgia.”

He still looks flabbergasted. It’s hard to know what he’s feeling beyond surprised, right now, and Bitty struggles to find his confidence. “No, I wasn’t. I let you think that, but– well, here I am!”

Jack’s still blinking at him, looking nothing more than confused.

Bitty starts to lose patience. “Honey, are you gonna let me in, or should I go packin’ on back to Samwell, because I can do that if you’re–”

Jack grabs him firmly by both arms and pulls him into the apartment.

The door swings closed behind him, and Bitty expects to be either yelled at or backed up against the wall and kissed within an inch of his life.

He doesn’t get either. Instead, he’s enveloped in Jack’s embrace – pressed up against his chest, with Jack’s long warm arms around him, Jack’s face buried in his hair. Bitty drops his bags and wraps his arms around Jack, holding him as tight as he knows how. Jack breathes a long, shaky sigh against him. “Bits,” he murmurs, plaintively, as though in prayer.

When they pull back, Bitty examines his face. The surprise in Jack’s expression is giving way to something else, something vulnerable and tender. Bitty wants it to be joy, he really does, but right now it looks more like he’s about to cry than anything. “Honey,” Bitty says, in a hurry to make it right. “I thought– well, I thought I’d stay, but I can find a hotel too if you–”

“Bits,” Jack interrupts. “Bitty. Shh.”

He lifts both hands to Bitty’s face, cradles it gently. And – thank God – he smiles. The first tear springs free and trickles down his cheek, shining.

“Stay,” he says. “Stay with me for Christmas.”

Bitty reaches up to wipe the tear away. “Sweetheart,” he says, his voice trembling. “Of course I will.”

Jack does kiss him then – sweet, slow, almost reverent – and pulls him into another embrace. “I thought I was going to be so lonely,” Jack whispers against the top of his head. “I was going to miss you. You were going to be down with your family and I was going to be– just here.”

Bitty squeezes him tight. “I’m sorry I let you think that, honey. I didn’t think you’d be so–”

“No, no. Don’t be sorry.” Jack kisses the crown of his head, nuzzles his hair. “You’re here. Thank– thank God.”

“Mm-hm.” Bitty strokes his back. “I’m here.”

“Thank God,” Jack whispers again.

Later, as they hold hands and watch the lights of the city sparkle against snow-capped roofs, Bitty does a little thanking God of his own. Thank God for this man and this moment, Bitty thinks fervently, squeezing Jack’s hand. Thank God for good friends and for love. And thank God that this surprise turned out to be a good thing. Because it’s not something Bitty thinks he’ll ever want to try again.


	7. another take on the christmas surprise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> an alternate take to the previous chapter. rated M I would say. :)

Jack can’t believe his eyes.

He grabs the doorframe. He takes in a thin breath that shakes as it goes down. And he stares.

There’s nothing particularly impressive about Bitty as he stands there, wrapped up in coat and hat and scarf and gloves, smiling at him with excitement and a touch of guilt. Nothing sexy or alluring in his pose, the way hedumps his overstuffed bag down on the hallway floor and tells Jack, “Surrpise!”

Nothing in particular, but…

“You’re in Georgia,” Jack says. His mind has played tricks on him before – what if this is just a particularly nasty one? What if the anticipation of this season’s loneliness is just getting to him? What if this hallway’s empty?

Oh, but it’s not, because Bitty’s there, and the whole hallway buzzes with the warm sun that is his presence. “I’m not,” he answers, smiling, simple, and it really is like the sun coming out, that shy and pleading little smile. “Are you disappointed?”

“Am I– ” Jack begins to echo, and the absurdity of the question washes over him. Is he disappointed? To discover that Bitty’s here, at his door, with a bag clearly packed to stay for the duration? To discover that his holidays are going to be redeemed after all? To have everything he ever wanted for this season right in front of him, close enough to reach out and touch?

The real question, Jack thinks as he feels his smile dawn, is why he’s not reaching out and touching already.

He steps into the hall, lifts Bitty’s bag in one hand, and hefts it inside, dropping it unceremoniously against the hallway wall. And then, reaching out, he pulls Bitty in after it. His heart is bursting, his whole body’s trembling. Bitty’s here. Here, and here to stay. Here, where Jack can touch him, kiss him and cherish him all week long, until the holidays have come and gone. Here, like every good dream Jack’s ever had, but real.

“So I have to be back on the 27th, but until then–” Bitty begins. It’s a miracle Jack even lets him get that far.

He pushes Bitty up against the wall, kisses him hot and wet and deep. A kiss that says everything Jack can’t put into words, a kiss that sends deep curls of warmth plummeting down to Jack’s toes as Bitty sighs into the kiss and grabs Jack by the shirt to haul him close. Jack tastes him, tongue licking inside his mouth. He groans, pushes Bitty up against the wall harder, crushes their bodies together. Bitty’s little whimper is every erotic imagining Jack’s ever had, all fused into one.

Wearing too much, Bitty’s wearing too much, with the hat and the gloves and … and Jack needs to get rid of it. He pulls the hat off Bitty’s head. Runs his fingers through Bitty’s hair. It’s a staticky mess and it’s gorgeous and smells good and Jack loves it. He pulls Bitty’s gloved hands free of his shirt, then yanks off each glove, throwing them to the floor as he goes. Bitty’s hands are freezing. Jack lifts them to his mouth, kisses them thoroughly, each knuckle and fingertip in turn. Bitty gasps as he pulls one finger into his mouth and grazes his teeth along the pad of it, then sucks.

“Coat,” he mutters, and Bitty hurriedly shrugs out of it, leaving it a lump on the floor as Jack pulls off his scarf and tosses it aside. Jack’s front hallway is a mess of winter clothes, and he couldn’t care less. He scoops Bitty up into his arms, and Bitty locks his legs around Jack’s waist, kissing him over and over as Jack stumbles down the hallway with his arms full of delirious, moaning boy. He steps sideways into the kitchen and deposits Bitty on a counter. Bitty spreads his legs, and Jack presses between them. He lifts his hands to run them along the line of Bitty’s face, his jaw. He kisses Bitty as tenderly as he can, trying to tame the want that’s burning inside him. “Bits,” he murmurs against Bitty’s lips. “Bits.”

Bitty gasps when Jack sinks his lips into the sweet long line of his neck. His fingers scrabble at Jack’s hairline. “Oh, honey,” he gasps, pressing forward on the counter, body seeking out Jack’s. “So– so it’s okay, then? If I stay?”

Jack growls at him. Really? He wants to talk logistics now? With one final nip at Bitty’s shoulder – drawing a soft moan – he takes a moment, steps back, looks Bitty square in the eyes. “Yes,” he says. “Yes, it’s okay.”

“Oh, thank goodness!” Bitty says brightly. “When I was planning this, I never stopped to think– but it’s kind of presumptuous, I suppose, just showing up and expecting–”

“Bits.” Jack interrupts with a dry look. “Tell me later.”  He breathes in, out, trying to control himself, but the words come out in a rush anyway. “Right now I’m taking you to bed.”

“Oh,” Bitty says, then, longer, “Ohhh.”

“Yeah,” Jack says, and curls one hand around Bitty’s waist to draw him in.

Bitty melts against him, sliding to the edge of the counter to press himself into Jack. They kiss for long, heated moments, relishing the fire building between them, moaning as the heat billows up through them. They love this, they’ve discovered – kissing, letting the tension build, having to hold back. Jack lingers as long as he can stand it, just kissing Bitty’s mouth and jaw and neck. But his patience is thin tonight, and he wants to keep unraveling the layers of Bitty, taking off all those ridiculous bulky winter clothes until all that’s left is flushed skin. He slides his hand under Bitty’s sweater, greedy.

Bitty cries out and buries his head in Jack’s shoulder. He locks his legs around Jack again, and murmurs, “Yes, honey. Take me to bed.”

Jack carries him, one hand slung under his ass and another curled around his back, down the hall to the bedroom. The trail of winter clothes sits forgotten in the hallway until morning.


	8. forever starts right now

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> shamelessly sappy kent/tater fluff

_Set in[Careful the Tale You Tell](http://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=http%3A%2F%2Farchiveofourown.org%2Fworks%2F8800147%2Fchapters%2F20175286&t=MWE2OGMxZGZiZmY1M2EyYzE0ZTYyMTI4YTE1OGU0YWE4MzE3YjYwNSxvR21qZjh3YQ%3D%3D&b=t%3ALNt5YiFoCqwanV6qHwa3BQ&p=https%3A%2F%2Fstufftippywrote.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F156959833893%2Fforever-starts-right-now&m=0) verse._

It’s about two months into their relationship. (Their proper relationship, not the year of fumbling that led them there.) Kent’s bugging Alexei about his stuff taking up too much room in Kent’s dresser drawers. “Can’t we, like, pick a drawer that’s yours and you can have that one, so your shit isn’t all messed up with mine?”

“You’re wanting to share drawers?” Alexei says, merrily putting a pair of pants in _right next to Kent’s pants,_ god damn it.

“At least can we fucking talk about it?”

“Pff. No, too early. We talk about it when we get married,” Alexei says breezily.

Kent nearly trips face first over his own dropped jaw.

And from then on, it turns into a thing.

“You ate my pie,” Alexei says one day after peering into the refrigerator. His face is still stuck behind the door, but the pout is obvious in his voice.

“Hey, this marriage is 50/50,” Kent says, smacking his ass as he goes by. “Next time, read the pre-nup.”

Another time, they’re out on Alexei’s boat, and Kent’s quietly watching the horizon. “Nice view,” he murmurs as Alexei puts an arm around him.

“Yes,” Alexei agrees. “Is reminding me of our honeymoon.”

Kent snorts a laugh. “Right, where was that again?”

Alexei mocks hurt. “Don’t telling me now you’re forgetting!” Kent swats him so hard it nearly knocks him overboard.

A few months later, Kent’s indecisive about where to go for dinner. “You don’t care, you don’t care,” Alexei echoes him. “How we ever decide on wedding cake, you don’t even care about food?”

“The wedding cake is chocolate,” Kent replies evenly. He’s slumping on the couch in his living room, Alexei pacing behind him.

“Chocolate!?” Alexei’s mortally offended.

“Yeah, what’s wrong with chocolate?”

Alexei sniffs. “Wedding cakes are white.”

“Yeah, to match your dress,” Kent fires back.

“You’re saying that, but I’m looking beautiful in my wedding dress.” Alexei rounds the couch and promptly sits on him.

Kent yelps. “Yeah, your fucking pure white dress because you’re a fucking blushing virgin. Get the fuck off me, Tate.”

“Your wedding dress is bright red?” Alexei somehow manages to turn on top of Kent without ever letting up on crushing him. He sits atop Kent’s knees, tucking his own knees forward to straddle him.

“I’m not wearing a… fucking… wedding dress,” Kent manages between fruitless wiggles. “The hell are you made of, lead?”

“Oh!” Alexei’s face lights up. “You’re getting married naked.”

Kent gives up the struggle. “Yeah, maybe I am.” He tilts his head, giving Alexei a grin he _knows_ is irresistible. “Wanna run upstairs and elope?”

The joke grows legs. By the second year of their relationship, Kent and Alexei are not only “married,” they’ve got five kids and three dogs (and Kit, of course). Alexei ribs Kent about being a terrible role model to their children. Kent tells Alexei to stop spoiling them rotten. Bitty and Jack, when they’re finally ready to double date, look at each other with expressions of utter confusion as the back-and-forth about the Parson-Mashkov fantasy family gets a little too long.

And then it’s the All-Star Break, two seasons later, and Kent’s up in Alexei’s hotel room after a day of media and star sighting.

“You coming back to stay this summer?” Kent says. His hand cradles Alexei’s, and Kent hefts it, feeling the weight of Alexei’s palm balanced on his own.

“Or you come stay with me.” It’s a usual point of contention with them by now. Kent spent last summer in Providence; the previous one they split down the middle.

“Yeah, but if we’re in Vegas,” Kent starts.

“If we’re in Vegas we’re both melting,” Alexei fills in. He curls his free hand around Kent’s waist and nuzzles at his hair. “Come back, we’re taking the boat up to Vineyard and relaxing.”

“Tate.” The word comes out a half-sigh. Alexei’s pressing little kisses to his hairline now, and the shell of his ear, and it’s hard to keep his train of thought. “I’m serious.”

“I’m serious, too.” Alexei’s mouth quests downward, and his body’s a solid line of warmth against Kent’s. “What we’re doing in Vegas we can’t do in Providence? Hm?”

“Well, for one,” Kent murmurs, “we could get married.”

Alexei laughs. “Again?”

“For real.” Kent turns to face him, to be serious, but he just gets Alexei’s mouth on his for his trouble. The kiss is deep and bone-meltingly good. Kent has to take a breath to ground himself. “No, listen. I mean it. We could sneak off and get married and nobody’d know.”

“Nobody excepting our five kids,” Alexei says.

“Would you cut it out?” Kent pushes at him, and the shove is serious enough that Alexei sits back and looks at him anew. “Come on. We talk about it enough. Why don’t we just get hitched already? It’d be cheap, and sure, we couldn’t tell anyone, but… why not?”

“Ken.” Alexei runs his fingertips over Kent’s hairline. “You’re being serious?”

“I just _said_ I was, Jesus Christ,” Kent says, trying to summon up a little frustration, but right now he’s looking at Alexei and he’s saying these words and it’s a little scary how much he means them. “C'mon, Alexei. Alyosha,” he tries, experimentally, even though the name never feels half as intimate as “Tate” does. “Lemme make an honest man of you.”

Alexei looks a little puzzled at the expression, but if he’s inclined to question it, he pushes the inclination aside. “Why you want to do this now?”

And isn’t that the seven-million-dollar question, because Kent has no idea. The concept of getting married – really getting married – occurred to him months ago, when they had their first meetup of the season and Kent spent a good twenty minutes just staring at Alexei’s face pressed into his pillow. Since then, Kent’s been nursing the sentiment, like a secret child, telling nobody but his psychiatrist that he was even considering it. To her credit, Eleanor said she thought it was a good impulse, so long as Kent didn’t let it become a fantasy that consumed him. It hasn’t – at least, he doesn’t think it has – but it’s something that makes his heart smile every time he thinks of it.

And now that he’s said it out loud, it feels three times as scary and ten times as right.

“I don’t–” he starts, and rewinds. “I don’t think I’m the kind of guy who’s gonna have a bunch of relationships in my life, you know? I mean, you know me, you know how long it took me to get past–” He shakes his head, because there’s no reason to bring up the names of ghosts. “And you and I, we’ve been what, two years now? Almost?” It’s closer to a year and a half, if he doesn’t count the nearly a year it took them to get there. “I … just don’t think there’s gonna be anyone else for me.” He pauses. “I don’t _want_ there to be anyone else for me, is my point.”

“Ken.” Alexei’s lost even the pretense of mirth in his face by now. His lips are pursed, and his hand is a gentle presence at the side of Kent’s face, thumb stroking gently over his jaw.

“You’re the best thing in my life, Tate.” Kent’s a little surprised to hear his own voice break, but he pushes forward. “And, you know… sue me, but I just want to know you’re mine. I want it to be official. That we…” and Jesus, it makes him embarrassed every time he says it, but it needs saying. “That we love each other. That we want to be together, even if we can’t be all the time.”

“You’re really wanting this,” Alexei says, his voice low and careful. “You’re wanting to marry me.”

Fuck, Kent won’t get misty, he _doesn’t_ get misty, but… “Yeah. Yeah, Tate. I’m… really wanting to marry you.”

There’s a moment, a terrifying moment, where Kent doesn’t know what’s going to happen. Whether Alexei’s face will light up or curl into a skeptical frown. Where it feels like once again he’s put his entire soul on the line, with no guarantees and no safety net, and maybe he’ll just go crashing through to the ground.

But in the next moment Alexei’s kissing him, and there’s a smile curling at his pursed lips.

“Okay,” Alexei tells him. “Okay, Kent Parson. Let’s get married.”

“Tate…” escapes Kent’s lips. And then the tears escape his eyes, and he surges forward to throw his arms around Alexei. Shit, this feels good, it feels so good, with Alexei in his arms, those big hands on his back, and Alexei’s “okay” ringing in his ears. Okay, then. Okay. He’s going to spend the rest of his life with Alexei. They’ll be tied to each other forever. Every inch of Kent’s sensibility wants to find that terrifying, and he just can’t. He’s happy. He’s so goddamn happy.

“But,” Alexei says with that damned lilt in his voice, “we can still be married in Providence.”

Kent shoves him. “You fucker,” he says, “that’s where we’ll get _divorced_.”

But he’s grinning the whole time.

And the early-morning trip to the jewelers the next morning means that as they battle each other in the skills competition that night, they’re wearing matching rings threaded onto gold chains beneath their uniforms. When Kent scores, the ring thumps against his chest and gives him a thrill. Forever, he thinks, starts right now.


	9. just another coffee shop AU

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a Nursey/Dex coffee shop AU? Well, I _could_ write it... or I could just write about _what_ I'd write if I were _actually_ writing it.
> 
> So yeah. Not!fic. :)

It’s harder than you think to get a job in a little podunk town that’s mostly home to fishermen. Dex takes what he can get, and what he can get is a job dishing out lattes and scones at the little pretentious coffee house that vacationing yuppies love to frequent on their way to Maine’s outlet malls. It’s barely a living, but Dex doesn’t need much.

He serves coffee one day to the preppiest of the prep – a luxuriously coiffed writer who tells him that the coffee shop has the perfect atmosphere for inspiration. Dex snorts. This is a guy who wears his stubble purposely rough, to achieve some kind of effect. He probably wears “pre-distressed” clothing (although right now his outfit’s actually really sharp, with this vest over a fuzzy, tight-fitting sweater.)

The writer challenges him. “Come on, you have to have a little poetry in your soul?”

“I sold my soul for a three-dollar latte,” Dex replies.

The man laughs, and goddamn, even his teeth are perfect.

What little free time Dex has, he devotes to the rink. He and a couple of the other guys in town have a sort of pick-up hockey league, and even though it’s very often just three-on-three against each other, Dex thinks he’s pretty good at it. He doesn’t expect writer dude to show up at the rink, and he definitely doesn’t expect him to get on the ice and skate around like a natural. The other guys invite him to play. Dex is instantly irritated, but he takes his place next to writer guy (Nurse, his name is - D-something Nurse) and goddamn, it’s like having a mirror image. Nurse is always where Dex needs him to be. Some kind of freaky-ass chemistry.

Afterward, Nurse is elated. “Did you fucking feel that?”

“No,” Dex tells him flatly.

“You felt it,” Nurse insists.

Nurse returns to the coffeehouse. Often. Sometimes he spends hours there. Dex watches him carefully, brings him his lattes, and … occasionally… talks with him a bit. Nurse is staying at the crappy motel on the end of the block. His first name is Derek. He’s writing a book of poetry and has a travel grant to visit remote towns.

“So you’re writing about us?” Dex asks.

“I’m writing about whatever inspires me about these towns,” Nurse – Derek – says. “Places, events, people.”

“Oh, well.” Dex smirks. “Try not to write too many poems about me.”

Derek doesn’t laugh. “I’m trying,” he says.

He keeps coming back to play hockey with Dex and his friends. He and Dex are so good together they eventually separate them onto different pickup teams. Dex feels the absence like he’s missing a limb.

There’s a dumbass fall festival in town, and everybody’s out in the streets. Derek is wandering around, sketching in his notebook, nodding and smiling and chatting up everyone he can find. Dex isn’t sure whether he’s following him or it’s just a coincidence that he keeps showing up in Dex’s field of vision. Derek eventually turns and calls him on it. They spend the rest of the festival together. Dex feels that same kind of humming energy between them as when they’re on the ice. He’s not the kind of guy to feel energies, and wonders if he’s cracking up. He wishes Derek, with his fanciful imaginings and New Age vocabulary, would hurry up and leave town.

Except for he really doesn’t.

They’re on the pier freezing their butts off at 3 a.m. when Derek says to him, “You know what’s funny about you?”

“My ears, I know,” Dex says.

“Well, that too. But you’ve never asked to read my poetry.”

“Hmph.” Dex ponders that. “Poetry’s not my thing.”

“I just figured you’d get curious.”

_I am curious,_ Dex thinks but doesn’t say. _About you. About why you picked this town. About why I am starting to miss you when you don’t come into the coffee shop._

“I’m not curious,” he says instead.

“Fair enough,” says Derek, and he doesn’t push it.

Dex isn’t without his own troubles. His lease is up for renewal in November, and his wages aren’t keeping pace with the raise in the rent. He looks for another job, but there’s nothing available. At this rate he’s going to end up on a fishing boat again, freezing his ass off and picking through lobsters. Which he’s done and he can stand, but he’s gotten used to his days at the coffee shop, and god fucking damn it, he’s gotten used to Derek’s presence. A life aboard a boat means no hockey, no sleep, and definitely no Derek.

No choice. He’ll have to look for a smaller hole in the wall to sleep in. He mentions apartment hunting to Derek offhand, and his troubles come to light.

“I can loan you money,” Derek says.

“I thought you were living off a travel grant,” Dex says.

“I mean, I have the grant, but I also have money.”

“Why would you take a grant if you already have money?”

“Because when someone throws money at you, you don’t turn it down. Which is why you should let me help you.”

“I don’t want to owe you.”

“Take it as a gift, then. One last thing I can give you before I go.”

And Dex’s heart sinks into his stomach. “You’re leaving?”

“It’s a travel grant.” Derek shrugs. “I have to travel.”

“Well.” Dex tries to gather himself. “It’s about time.”

“You say that, but you don’t mean it,” Derek says with confidence.

Dex sighs. “Yeah,” he admits, “I don’t.”

And it’s Dex who organizes the going-away party for Derek, who over the past two months has become such a good friend to all of them at the rink and a fixture in the town. He and his friends pack Dex’s small apartment to bid farewell to Derek, who looks around and keeps his lips tightly sealed, though his eyes glitter.

“Dude,” Derek says to him late that night, as they stand in a corner of Dex’s small kitchenette and drink. This apartment isn’t huge, but it’s big enough for two. “Why don’t you get a roommate? You could split the rent.”

“Because I already know everyone in town,” Dex says, “and they all have places to live already.” (The idea hadn’t actually occurred to him, but what he says is true nonetheless.)

“Oh,” Nursey says. “Hmm.”

Dex’s friends trickle out one by one and soon it’s just the two of them, late at night.

“Before I go,” Derek says, “I wanna ask you something. A favor. Well, not a favor. I – fuck, I got all the words for everything else and nothing for this.”

“You could write it in a poem,” Dex teases.

“The best I could do right now is a cheap rhyme,” Derek says. “Fuck. I …. Will … I just… really wanna kiss you.”

“Oh.” Dex goes beet red. “Me? Really?”

Derek nods emphatically.

“Well. Um. I guess, since you’re leaving anyway, it doesn’t matter.”

“So – is that a yes?”

Dex nods. Derek leans in. The kiss is sweet and lingering and not nearly enough. Dex aches for more. But he pushes Derek out the door, then leans heavily against the back of it, pressing his fingers against his lips, grinning.

The day of Derek’s leaving town comes. Dex helps him pack. Derek keeps procrastinating. _Let’s stop and have lunch. Hang on, I gotta write something. Let’s take a walk first._ But eventually they get everything packed up and into Derek’s car, and it’s then – only then – that Derek’s phone rings. His eyes light up, and he ducks around the corner to take the call.

When he returns, he immediatelly starts unloading the suitcases from the car.

Dex goes insane. “What– what are you doing? I busted my ass getting that shit down here.”

“Well, bust your ass bringing it back up,” Derek says. “I’m staying.”

“You’re _staying_?”

“Yeah. I called my editor a while back, said I’d found a town that inspired me and wanted to stay for a while. Couple of more months, maybe a year?” All this as Nursey climbs the motel stairs, his back to Dex, just trusting that Dex is following – which Dex is, mutely, his mind racing. “I just had to get her okay and make sure it wouldn’t fuck with the grant.”

“So wait… you’re staying… for… Nurse!” Dex finally roars loud enough to make Derek stop. “A year? Are you serious?”

Derek turns. “There are things here I don’t want to say goodbye to,” he says.

You better believe Dex walks up to him and kisses him then, because what the hell else is he supposed to do?

“But,” Derek says, “I can’t live in this hotel forever. Do you know anyone who’s looking for a roommate?”

Dex scowls at him. “We’re just now starting to… do _this_ … and you want to move in?

"Why not?”

“Because it could be really awkward.”

“It could.” Derek’s smile is brilliant. “Or it could be awesome.”

It’s awesome.


	10. i want you to know

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More Nurseydex, there's gonna be a few chapters of Nurseydex in a row from now on

They come off the ice after warmup, not sweaty yet but flushed and excited. Dex’s heart is pounding in his throat. He didn’t think he’d be here again. Not without Jack on the team. But with one game between them and a championship, he can taste that hot tang of anticipation, and the remembered bitterness of a three-year-old disappointment. He doesn’t want to feel that again.

Nursey’s at the sinks, splashing water over his face. Dex glances at him, and his heart somersaults awkwardly in his chest. Does Nursey have any idea what it means to Dex, that they’re still partners after all this time? That Nursey’s put up with the sourness and the stoicism, the angry glares and the shouting fights, for so long? Does he know that every time he’s trolled Dex, a swell of affection has ridden under Dex’s outrage?

There’s so much that he wants Nursey to know before they go out there. There’s so much that will go unsaid if they lose – so much that will fester beneath Dex’s skin forever if he loses his nerve now – because in this moment, with his blood pumping hard through him, Dex is bolder and surer than he’s ever been.

“Nurse,” he mutters, brushing Nursey’s shoulder as he goes by. “Got a minute?”

He wanders out to the hallway, turns a corner, and waits for Nursey to follow. Because of course he will.

And of course he does. Nursey rounds the corner, looking confused and half-lost. “Sup?”

Dex looks at him, and the heat in his cheeks is so overwhelming he almost bowls over. “Just… we’re here again,” he says.

“Yeah, been three years. Gonna be different this time, though.” Nursey lifts his fist for a bump.

Dex eyes it, but doesn’t meet it. “If it doesn’t,” he starts.

“Aw, c'mon, Poindexter, don’t start with that now…”

“If it doesn’t,” Dex repeats emphatically, holding Nursey’s gaze. Nursey quiets. “I want you to know.”

“Know what?” Nursey’s brow furrows, and he quiets, as though waiting for something he knows is coming. How can he know, if Dex doesn’t know himself?

Oh, God, exactly what is he about to say?

“I want you to know,” Dex repeats himself, and licks his lips, pondering. “It’s been good. You know. Being your partner. It’s been a good run.”

But that’s not it, that’s not all, and Dex can’t let Nursey think that’s all he’s got…

He coughs. “And, you know. You’ve been. Good. A good friend. A– I’m gonna miss the attic, you know? And talking late at night about shit. And–”

_And seeing your face in the morning. And enjoying the sunlight from the little round window splay out over your bare back as you rummage through the drawers for T-shirts. And the feeling that, if I ever needed your arms, they’d be there for me._

“Dex,” Nursey says. “Look, I’m – I’m bound to screw this up if I do it now, but you’ve got to know the feeling’s entirely mutual, man. You mean a hell of a lot to me.”

“Funny way of showing it,” Dex says with a half a smile. Nursey’s lips quirk in answer.

“Maybe so, maybe so. But you’re – you’re not just a friend. Not even – not even just a best friend. You’re – there’s this poem, by Sexton, about hands clapping and–”

“You’re gonna bring poetry into this now?”

Nursey gives a guilty grin. “It’s that or kissing you, and I don’t wanna screw you up before the game.”

It will never cease to amaze Dex, even years later, that he’s able to answer so calmly. “Go for the kiss, because I can’t deal with your metaphors right now.”

“I’m talking a real kiss,” Nursey warns.

“I know,” Dex says.

Nursey swallows. “You serious?”

“Hurry it up, Nurse.”

Nursey’s face lights up in one brilliant moment of realization. And then he’s leaning in and brushing his lips softly against Dex’s – short, gentle, a purse and release. His lips are chapped. Dex fights the urge to run his tongue over them, wet them. Later. Later.

“OK.” Dex smirks at him. “Let’s go kick their asses.”

“Dex,” Nursey says, and his voice breaks.

Dex pats his lower back. “Later, Nurse. We’ve got time later.”

Jostling each other with shoulders and hips the whole way, they head back into the dressing room to prepare to hit the ice.


	11. this one moment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dex has a physical reaction that Nursey can't ignore XD

Nursey won’t stop giggling.

“You’re gonna get us caught,” hisses Dex.

“I just keep imagining their faces.” Nursey almost breaks into a fresh round of giggles. Dex frowns at him. Okay, he _is_ kind of amused at the lax bros’ inevitable reaction to finding a hundred toy spiders all over the cheap booze collection they hoard in their attic. But right now, he and Nursey are stuck in the upstairs closet, as one of the Chads has unexpectedly exited his bedroom and ambled down the hall to the bathroom. They’re stuck here, listening to lax pee at 3 a.m., waiting to seize their chance to sneak downstairs and out.

Nursey shifts, grumbling in a whisper about a broom digging into his back, and Dex abruptly has Nursey’s hip pressed against his thigh. He tries to shift away, but loses his balance and falls against Nursey with an “oof.”

“Shh,” Nursey cautions him, as though he wasn’t making a racket himself, and Dex stills as Chad flushes the toilet one very thin wall away.

Oh, God. Nursey’s got one arm slung around him protectively, and his hand lands, hot and spread-fingered, on Dex’s back. Dex bites back a curse and closes his eyes as he’s abruptly made aware of all the places they’re touching. His shoulders wedged against Nursey’s, their thighs and hips aligned – his face tucked into Nursey’s chin –

Nursey catches his breath. “Really, Poindexter? Not appropriate.”

“What?” Dex starts, but then he realizes exactly what Nursey’s likely feeling. His face goes hot. “Shut up. I can’t help it.”

“Thinking of that blonde in our seminar again?”

“Shut up, Nurse.”

“Or does pulling pranks turn you on? You’re a kinky son of a bitch.”

“I told you, I can’t help it!” Dex hisses. “You’re hot!”

Nursey’s still. Dex wonders why. Then he realizes what he’s just said.

“Shit,” he mutters. “Never mind.”

Chad has headed back to his bedroom, and the coast is probably clear. But Nursey’s not showing the least interest in getting the fuck out of Dodge. Slowly, very slowly, he takes in a breath. “You think I’m hot?” he murmurs, a notch above a whisper, so Dex can hear the low incredulity in his voice.

Dex mutters another curse. “Yeah, fine, I do, okay? Can we talk about this later?”

“Do you want me?” Nursey asks.

Dex pulls his head back to stare critically at Nursey, but it’s pitch black in the closet. He scowls at nothing. “Is this really the time?”

Nursey’s hand shifts from Dex’s back to his waist. He works up Dex’s shirt just enough that a strip of his palm lands on bare skin. Dex sucks in a breath. His cock jumps against Nursey’s hip.

“Holy shit,” Nursey murmurs. “You fucking want me.”

“It’s–” Nursey’s thumb is stroking his skin and Dex is going to go out of his mind– “three in the morning–” Nursey’s breathing is heavy– “and we should get out–”

Nursey’s mouth lands on his, sudden and hot. Dex’s body goes all to flame. He makes a noise that Chad probably heard, if he’s still awake.

But God, it doesn’t matter, if they get caught and reported and fucking _expelled_ it doesn’t matter, because Nursey’s hands are on him and Nursey’s mouth is on him and they’re kissing, kissing hard in a tiny closet with their bodies pressed together, and Dex wants to go up in flame and die right now because he does not want to deal with the aftermath of this. He just wants this one moment, and everything that happens later, the chagrin and the inevitable humiliation, can go die. He lifts his hands and locks them at the back of Nursey’s neck, reveling in the soft sounds Nursey makes at their touch.

Nursey’s mouth lifts from his. Dex silently pleads for death now.

“We should go,” Nursey says.

“Y-yeah.” Dex’s instinct for self-preservation kicks in. Somehow he manages to steal down the stairs and out of the Lax house behind Nursey without stopping in the kitchen to stab himself.

But as they hurry across the street, Nursey looks back at him, and Dex gets a first look at his face under the streetlight’s dim glow. Nursey’s eyes are bright, and he’s smiling. Not grinning, not smirking, and not laughing at Dex – just smiling.

Maybe Dex has more to look forward to than just one moment.


	12. i'm not faking

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Someday, I might write a Jack/Bitty fake-dating AU. (I have it all outlined and everything.)  
> This is one idea of how such an AU might end.

"Enough.”

The word falls from Bitty’s lips, and Jack stares at him, dumbfounded.

“Enough, Jack,” Bitty says, looking at him with eyes full of tears. Damn it, Jack can’t deal with that, with tears from Bitty of all people. Bitty’s been the strong one, this whole time. He’s carried on this whole charade marvelously, been there for Jack when Jack just wanted to abandon the ruse, convinced him that it was worth it to be a little bit fake in order to be completely true.

“Enough?” Jack echoes. God, how he wants – aches – to cross the room and drag his thumbs across Bitty’s cheeks, chase the tears down, banish them. He aches, more than ever, to close the space between their bodies and kiss Bitty. Not the fake, just-for-show kisses they’ve gotten so used to, but a real kiss, one that’s just for them.

“I can’t, I just can’t do this anymore,” Bitty says. His voice is thick with tears, and he chokes on a sob. “I can’t go back out there and enjoy this party and pretend.”

“Okay,” Jack hears himself say. “Okay. Whatever you want. I’ve– I’ve asked too much of you already.”

His heart thuds dully. He doesn’t want to let this go, false though it may be. He’s gotten used to days full of Bitty. He’s gotten used to that soft, strong hand in his own. The thought of going without it has him hurting worse than he’s ever thought he could hurt. But what can he do? He wants Bitty happy. The sight of him tearful and dejected is breaking Jack’s heart.

“Jack,” Bitty says, trying to compose himself. “You know– you have to know I tried. I tried so hard. I wanted to be the– the perfect fake boyfriend for you, but I just can’t anymore. It hurts too much. Knowing I have to spend every day with you, and knowing–”

–and here it comes, the part where Bitty tells him he can’t stand Jack’s presence, where Bitty admits to loving someone else–

“–knowing it can’t be real. I can’t – I can’t stand you looking at me like that and knowing it’s just for show –”

_what?_

“–when I’ve – I’ve fallen so hard for you –  I’m sorry – you deserved someone so much better at pretending and I’ve just –”

Jack’s hands are trembling. No. All of him’s trembling.

He takes a slow, unsure step toward Bitty. “Bits,” he says.

“Don’t,” Bitty pleads. “I don’t want to hear it, I just– let me – let me just leave this godforsaken party early and go home and try to forget you –”

“Don’t leave,” is all Jack can think to say.

“I can’t stay here anymore, Jack. I can’t go back in front of all those people and deal with you faking being in love with me–”

“I’m not faking.”

“–when I know that you– what?” Bitty sniffs hard, and his eyes go bigger than Jack’s ever seen. They sparkle in the light, chocolate brown and gold, and Jack sees the stirrings of hope there.

“I’m not faking,” he says again, taking another step. “Bits, I’m not faking. I – I haven’t been for a long time. I’m – I want–”

Closer. Closer, and surer, and Jack feels the words tumble out now without reservation. “I want you,” he says. “I need you. Not – for them. Not for the cameras. For me. For us.”

Bitty swallows hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing. His tears have tracked red streaks down his face. Jack can’t bear not touching it one moment longer. He closes the gap between them, cups Bitty’s jaw, stares down at him. Beneath the pressure of his gaze, Bitty starts to find himself. “Mr. – Mr. Zimmermann, are you saying that you – that you’re –”

“In love with you,” Jack murmurs. “Yes. Yes, that’s what I’m saying.”

Bitty bites his lip hard, forcing down another sob. He’s trembling, and Jack drops one hand to his waist to steady him. This way of holding him has always felt so right. Like that first dance, when Bitty smiled up at him, full of charm and humor, and Jack was warmed by his gaze. Now, in the light of Bitty’s eyes, Jack’s not only warm but whole.

“In love,” Bitty echoes. “With me.”

“Yes.”

“Really?”

Jack squeezes his waist. “Yes.”

“Then – goodness – Jack –” Bitty licks his lips. “Why on earth aren’t you kissing me right now?”

Jack feels his own lips turn up. He relishes the smile, the swell of emotion and joy, then yields to Bitty’s common sense and leans down.

And this kiss – one of dozens in the past weeks – might as well be the only one they’ve ever shared. Jack thrills to the feel of Bitty’s lips beneath his, the curl of Bitty’s hand against the nape of his neck. Bitty’s breath, Bitty’s scent. The half-sob, half-laugh that Bitty muffles against his mouth. Alone in this ridiculous room, away from the lights and sounds of a party where every move has been for show, they claim a moment for their very own.

Bitty sighs, lowers his head, and presses his face against the lapel of Jack’s jacket. “So – we can go out there – and be for real?” he asks, a low note of wonder in his voice.

“Yeah.” Jack tousles his hair. “But maybe you should go wash your face first.”

“I– I _know_ that, you–” Bitty looks up at him, pauses, and then grins. “Really?*” he says, one more time.

Jack presses his lips to Bitty’s forehead. “Really,” he murmurs. “Come on.”

They exit the room, arms looped around each other, and head back to the party. This time, when they dance, it will be for real.


	13. music

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What definitely didn't happen at Bitty's second Winter Screw.

This Winter Screw is going much better than the last.

For one thing, Bittle’s date isn’t throwing up on his shoes, which Jack understood happened last year. And right now Bittle appears to be dancing with his date, or something like it. Jack, having seen the way Bittle can dance at parties, knows he’s toning it way down. Even so, Bittle is fun to watch on the dance floor, how the light catches his hair and how his smile widens as he jerks his hips from side to side with a laugh. He just always looks like he’s having a great time.

It strikes Jack kind of funny that he’s decided this Screw is going well based entirely on how good of a time Bittle’s having. God knows it has nothing to do with himself and his own date. Camilla and Jack have a quiet understanding; she’s with her friends, he’s … here, watching his pal on the dance floor, with an already-drained clear plastic cup of water and strangely itchy fingers.

But Jack’s not the kind of guy who has an actively good time at these things – they’re okay, he’s okay. It’s guys like Bittle, who are capable of having amazing times or miserable ones, that Jack has to calibrate his experience by.

Even Bittle’s date, who Jack wasn’t particularly impressed by, is starting to look like he’s having a really good time. It’s proximity to Bittle, probably, that unlocks the ability to enjoy life that much. Jack’s felt it too, in heart-catching and fleeting moments, around the Haus and at class and the rink. Moments when Bittle sasses him and grins, or pouts, red-cheeked, at Jack’s chirps. Moments when Jack just has the feeling they’re on the exact same page.

Doesn’t seem fair that he can’t feel it now. It’d be nice to be able to enjoy this event a little more.

Well, why not… why not just for one minute, for one dance?

Jack steps forward, crosses the dance floor and touches Bittle’s date on the shoulder. He looks around, then stills, as though Jack’s the police come to arrest him for having too much fun.

Jack gives him an easy smile, then informs him bluntly, “I’m cutting in.”

Bittle’s date backs off in a hurry, and Jack slips into his place, touching Bittle gently on the waist and meeting his gaze. Bittle’s  laugh is frozen in midair, smile stretched wide but eyes round with surprise. He shakes himself free of it after a moment. “Well, now, Jack,” he says, “I sure didn’t think you had that in you.”

Jack shrugs. “I felt like having some fun.”

“Can’t blame you for that,” Bittle says, a glint in his eyes. He shakes his hips again, arms flying up, and starts to dance. Jack follows, hand still tucked in tight to Bittle’s waist, finding his own lips stretch into a smile. Already, the world feels like it’s coming to life around him.

And then, the music stops.

Bittle pauses, arms raised, and cocks his head. “Oh.”

Jack turns to glance at the DJ, wondering if an announcement is going to be made, but a moment later the music starts up again.

This time it’s slow, sexy – a romantic ballad. Bittle folds back, arms coming down, shoulders starting to hunch forward. “Um.”

It’s not funny, exactly, but it’s odd the way Bittle’s suddenly turned off. Jack frowns. “What?”

“Nothing. I should probably–”

Jack holds out a hand.

Bittle blinks. Stares.

“I know how to dance, Bittle.”

About ten expressions filter across Bittle’s face, and Jack would have to be a much smarter man to interpret a single one of them. At the end of it all, though, Bittle steps forward firmly and puts his hand on Jack’s shoulder. “All right, then.”

Jack takes his other hand. It feels good, drifting into the music here with Bittle. He’s just the right size to fit, and his hands are lithe and warm, one tangled with Jack’s, the other pressing against the jacket of Jack’s suit.

“So,” Jack says, letting his head bob forward just a bit, “having a good time so far tonight?”

“Oh, well,” Bittle says, “you know. It’s not last year. And don’t tell me I have to remind you what happened last year.”

Jack chuckles and shakes his head. The song plays, and they chat and sway, comfortable and casual. About halfway through the song, Jack abruptly gets the oddest sensation. It’s like he’s hearing music, but not the music playing on the speakers. The music is in the two of them, somehow – the cadence of their conversation, the smiles and laughs and murmurs and silences. It all comes in a kind of rhythm. And the rhythm matches the sway of their bodies, which matches the steps of their feet. A completely separate song, playing parallel to the song soaring through the room. It’s a weird sensation, and Jack wishes he knew a better way to think of it. He’s not musical. But it still feels like music.

Bittle’s hand drops from his hand to his elbow, after a while. It’s just as well. Jack’s arm wasn’t tired, exactly. But this is comfortable. He bends his head forward, his nose brushing the crown of Bittle’s head, and steadies his now-free hand on Bittle’s hip.

He hears a little gasp, and Bittle’s hand jumps from elbow to tricep, molding around the curve of the muscle there. His feet shuffle a little closer to Jack’s. They’re quite close now, and as the distance has dropped off so has the conversation – just naturally, as though it was always meant to fade – like the end of a song.

The silence is nice. And Bittle’s closeness is nice, and Jack gathers him a little closer still. He was right to cut in. Because now he’s enjoying this dance immensely. Enjoying it, and also starting to feel a bit giddy, like he’s been skating too fast for too long. His hands tighten on Bittle’s hips, as though he could steady himself, but it only heightens the sensation.

Dizzy, Jack inhales. Bittle smells nice. Aftershave, maybe, but Jack couldn’t think to characterize it past that, except that it’s nice. Jack realizes his eyes have slipped closed, and he takes a moment to savor the darkness before opening them and looking down at Bittle – at the landscape of his hair, the turn of his cheek, the flutter of eyelashes as Bittle’s eyes slip closed and he nods forward.

And somewhere in all of this the actual song ended, and another one began, but it doesn’t much matter anymore. What matters is Bittle close to him, the heat from his body drifting through shirt and tie and jacket to hang like a haze in the air. What matters is Bittle’s breathing, a little shallow and uneven, the puffs of air against Jack’s shoulder as Bittle’s forehead brushes it.

And what matters most is the feeling like dawn all through Jack’s body, a new understanding rose-tinted and brightening.

“Bittle,” he murmurs.

Bittle lifts his head. And oh – that’s a shock of bright brown eyes, inches from Jack’s – and the turn of his nose and the slack part of his lips, close enough to scrutinize, close enough to lean in and–

“Jack?” The quaver in Bittle’s voice makes something bright and warm rush through Jack’s body.

Words, he needs words, the right words, but he was never good at them, he doesn’t know how to find words for this feeling, what does he _do_ – “Bittle.”

But he can’t get past the name. He’s assaulted now by memory, all the times he’s felt more alive just by being in Bittle’s presence, that effect he’d attributed to Bittle just being the person he is, but it was the same music playing then as now. It’d always been there, and Jack – Jack just hadn’t heard it.

Bittle drops his hands to Jack’s wrists, pulls slightly. “Come on,” he says. “Let's get some air.”

Jack follows him, through people and halls and doorways, and wonders where it’s all leading. Everything’s jumbled up now–the feel and smell of Bittle still suffusing his breaths and fingertips, the retreating beat of the music, the sudden cold as they find themselves outside in a small, abandoned courtyard. 

Jack sighs, and his breath flies in front of him a white cloud. “Bittle?”

Bittle’s back is to him. “My goodness, the cold feels good,” he says, though he’s already shivering. “I suppose I worked up quite the head of steam dancing away in there!”

No, now he’s deflecting, dancing away when Jack just wants him close again. “Bittle–”

“And you! Dear Lord, cutting in like that! I didn’t think you had it in you, to be honest, Jack–”

Bittle turns as he speaks; his eyes fall on Jack’s face as he says Jack’s name, and he stops. Everything stops. His smile fades, and they stand, a few inches from each other, wordless. Their breaths appear in  soft puffs between them.

“I didn’t know,” Jack says. “I didn’t realize.”

“Jack–” Bittle bites his tongue. “It’s okay. We were dancing and… and I just got a little too–”

“I thought it was just you,” Jack goes on. What is he saying? It doesn’t make any sense. “I thought you’re just– that kind of guy. I didn’t think we–”

“Wait, what? Now you’re confusing me.” There’s a soft break under one of those words, a rough fraying of Bittle’s voice, and Jack is struck by a sudden, nearly unbearable urge to rush forward and taste it beneath his lips. He trembles. It’s been years – _years_ – since he wanted to kiss anyone like this, and now –

His fists clench. Bittle notices, and his eyes widen.

“Now, Jack,” he says, his voice still rough and a little shaky, “now you’re starting to worry me, are you all right?”

Jack opens his mouth, but the weight of the world is on his tongue. He can’t find the words. There are no words. Just music.

He rushes forward, pulls Bittle into his arms, and kisses him hard.

Bittle gasps beneath him, but then the gasp turns into a whimper, and all at once Jack’s got fingers on the back of his neck and a warm strong body against his. His skin sings with completion. _Yes. This_ is what he’s been craving, what he hasn’t felt in years. But he might as well have never felt it before in his life. Bittle’s mouth under his, yielding and soft, is new. Bittle’s hand sliding under his jacket to spread against his back is brand new. The press of the two of them together, a nucleus of warmth in a bitter cold night, is utterly new.

“We– oh, my God–” Bittle’s murmuring, mumbling under Jack’s lips. Why? When there’s so much kissing they could still be doing? He pulls back enough to let him start to speak. “We both are here with _dates,_ Jack, this is so …”

Jack kisses him again. It feels too good to stop. It feels too right.

Bittle wriggles beneath him. Wriggles, but kisses back, his hands moving slowly down Jack’s back. “Mm… Jack… Jack, wait a minute, please!” And now he finds his strength, pulling his hands free and pushing Jack back. Jack obeys, despite the sting of the cold all around him where Bittle suddenly isn’t.

Jack still has no words. He just stares, takes in the sight of kiss-wet lips, flushed cheeks, bright wide eyes. Everything in him burns to work his way close again.

“Jack.” The reproachfulness in Bittle’s tone is amusing – no, it’s _cute,_ Bittle’s _cute,_ cute and hot and all those other adjectives Jack never thought he’d have cause to use again. His blood is roaring. “We can’t just… do this now.”

“I want to do this now,” Jack says, dumbly.

“You– okay, yes, you do, I’m just getting used to that… but come on, now, we have dates to attend to and they’re both probably wondering where in the name of God we both are!” Bittle wrings his hands. “Look, let’s just get through tonight – and, look, tomorrow, tomorrow we’ll talk– we’ll– _did you just kiss me?_ ”

Jack has no idea why he needed to ask, but at least it’s an easy question to answer. “Yes.”

Bittle looks as though he’s going to faint. “But– but you’re with – and you’re going to go– and—”

“Bittle.” Jack finds a smile coming to his face. It always comes so easily when Bittle’s around, and now Jack has an idea why. “Like you said. We’ll talk tomorrow.”

The smile that slowly dawns on Bittle’s face is nothing short of brilliant. He shakes his head, laughing. “All right, Mr. Zimmermann,” he says. “All right. We’ll talk tomorrow.”

But he leans up with sparkling eyes and drops a feather of a kiss on Jack’s mouth before heading back in to the dance. Jack stands a moment, fingers on his lips, then follows. And for the rest of the night, music plays in his head.


	14. what if?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nursey nearly drowns. Dex saves his ass.

It’s not water, it’s ice. It’s a thousand needles of ice pricking at Dex’s skin. Soon they’ll pierce him, puncture his bursting lungs and turn him breathless, lifeless. Still, he swims on.

The current is fighting him. His own lungs are fighting him. His eyes fight, too, stinging, but he keeps them open, gleaning what light he can in the dark water. Later, he will think back and see only seconds of being alone in that darkness. Now, it’s minutes. An endless slow trudge of time as he turns and searches.

He remembers pulling off his flannel, stripping out of his jeans in the freezing night. He remembers kicking off his shoes. And then the plunge, the fevered dive into the water, the rush of his blood keeping him warm. And then, crashing down and through into this frozen limbo, one thought in mind. _Where’s Nurse?_

> ( _It’s fine_ , Nursey says, _it’s chill. I’m not that drunk, and the railing’s really fucking wide._
> 
> _Get down,_ Dex tells him.
> 
> Nursey scoffs. _What are you, my mother?_ )

Dex is a strong swimmer, but it’s one thing to practice in the shallows at the beach and in placid lakes. A real, vital, rushing river is a living thing, and it consumes Dex, licking him hungrily with cold tongues. He fights past it. There’s a dark shape in the dark water, and Dex swims for it, pushing and kicking and praying.

He’s done this. He’s done this before. He once fished his cousin out of the sea when the riptide pulled him under. But his cousin was seven, and Nursey’s big, big and heavy and stubborn even when he can move on his own. Idiot. What was he thinking? What did he think he could do if he toppled over the edge, a concrete block of muscle and skin, inebriated and waterlogged and weighed down by sopping clothing?

What happens if Dex can’t move him?

> ( _What are you, the designated driver?_ Nursey presses a cold beer to Dex’s forehead. Around them, music and laughter circulate in the air.
> 
> _Shut up,_ Dex says. _Sometimes I don’t feel like drinking._
> 
> _Seriously? Tonight of all nights?_
> 
> Dex smirks. _Especially tonight. I wanna remember tonight._
> 
> _Okay, then._ Nursey drops onto the couch next to him and tucks his head into Dex’s shoulder. Dex bristles, but Nursey ignores it. _You can walk me home later._ )

He makes contact. Nursey’s skin is cool to his touch. Dex kicks harder than he’s ever kicked before, forces himself between arm and shoulder, and makes for the surface. Nursey’s body is leaden. The surface is miles away. Dex’s lungs are bursting. They’ll never make it.

And then – air – breath – life.

Dex heaves great round breaths that fill his diaphragm and buoy him. He hoists Nursey above the water line, face and neck and shoulders. The river’s bank is not so far away. Already, there’s someone watching. Screaming. Dex frowns at her, though she’s too far away to see his disapproval. _Don’t scream, call 911,_ he thinks. _People are stupid._

The stupidest person is right beside him, a cinder block of a man, unconscious and ponderous. Dex swims for shore. Each stroke is labor. His lungs ache more now than they did when he was underwater. But with each kick and tug and struggle, he’s a little closer. Nursey stirs next to him. Stirs, but doesn’t breathe. Dex kicks harder. Just now, he almost felt dirt beneath his feet. Another kick, another tug, Nursey’s body suddenly seized by gravity, and – yes – thank God –

Dex staggers onto the riverbank, dragging Nursey behind him. He stumbles and falls forward, going to one knee, and releases the weight of Nursey from his shoulders. Nursey falls, unmoving and unbreathing, onto the grass.

Breathing. God, he’s not breathing. He must have inhaled water and passed out. The girl is still screaming. Dex coughs hard, water spilling from his mouth. He finds a breath. “Call a fucking ambulance,” he barks. Struggling to his knees, he looks down at Nursey. Shit. Shit, what if he’s dead? What if he’s gone? What if there is no more Nursey in Dex’s world?

> (The puck zings across the ice. Dex can feel the weight of the next few seconds. He sees the lane. It’s a split second. He lifts his stick.
> 
> Slap shot. The goalie scrambles. The net whiffs with impact. The buzzer sounds.
> 
> And then Nursey’s arms are around him, and Nursey’s voice is a jubilant song in his ears. In another moment Dex will register the roar of the crowd, and a few seconds after that Bitty and Whiskey and the others will skate over and there’ll be a group hug. But right now, in this single, explosive moment of joy, with Nursey beside him, Dex is happier than he’s ever, ever been.)

It all happens in less than a second – Nursey’s face contorts, and his head turns, and then he’s coughing up water. Cough after cough after cough, but then he inhales. Dex feels something inside him break, flood – a rush of warmth. He’s breathing. He’s alive. Thank God.

“Don’t move,” he says. “Don’t move. Help is coming. Stay right there.”

Nursey coughs up water for another minute, then lifts an arm to wipe his mouth. “What happened?” His voice is weak, and water dribbles from the corner of his lips.

“You fell in the river,” Dex tells him. “You’re heavy.”

Nursey wipes his face and blinks up at Dex. He’s just lying there, as though he’s waking up from a nap, as though he didn’t scare Dex half to death. “You saved me?”

“Nobody else around,” Dex says.

Nursey gives him that easy, lazy smile. “Thanks, Will.”

“Don’t fucking thank me, just don’t ever do that again.” And then, because he can’t hold it back any longer: “Oh, God. Jesus, Nurse. I thought you were dead. Oh, God.”

He shivers hard. Jesus, he’s freezing. It’s cold out and he’s never been so terrified, and now the shudders won’t stop. He sits there, on his knees next to a prone Nurse, and shivers so hard he thinks his teeth are going to come out. He was so scared. So fucking scared.

> (They’re sitting down to team breakfast, and Nursey is laughing at something Holster said, and Dex just happens to look over. Just happens to look, but in another moment he’s caught. It’s the silk of Nursey’s skin that gets to him, the smoothness of it where stubble doesn’t prick through. Dex has itched to touch for longer now than he can even remember. He’s used to the itch. Even likes it.
> 
> _Yo, Poindexter,_ Nursey says, catching his gaze. _Gonna kick some ass today, huh?_
> 
> The bulbous lights of the cafeteria reflect in Nursey’s eyes, tiny eggs. Dex watches them with some amusement. _If you’re up for it,_ he shoots back. Nursey grins, and Dex’s heart catches against his ribs with a wonderful, painful twinge. He gets the sudden, exhilarating feeling that today is going to be momentous.)

A weight on his knee. Nursey’s hand. Dex looks down at it, incredulous. Is Nursey comforting him? But he’s the one who almost…

“Will,” Nursey says. “’s chill. I’m okay.”

“You’re still drunk,” Dex snaps back, but now his eyes are wet and he’s sure the salt sting isn’t from river water. “Fuck, Nurse.” He wipes his eyes aggressively.

Nursey frowns. “Bro. You crying?”

“Shut up, I’m not crying.” Dex wipes his eyes and sniffles. “I don’t cry.”

“Don’t think I ever had a dude cry over me,” Nursey says. The words come out halting, and he pauses to take shallow breaths. “Don’t really deserve it, man. But thanks.”

“Shut up, Nursey.” That, at least, is easy to say. Habit. “I thought – Jesus, I thought I was gonna lose you.”

“Lose me?” Nursey stumbles over the words. “That sounds like…” The corners of his mouth turn up, and he huffs out a soft laugh. “Maybe I am still drunk. Thought for a moment you were… nah. Nah, I’m daydreaming.”

His eyes are starting to slip closed again. Panic rises in Dex’s throat. He doesn’t want Nursey to fall asleep, not when he’s this cold. Dex doesn’t know if that’s dangerous but he doesn’t want to find out. What if this is it? What if he closes his eyes and they don’t open again? What if the next moment, Nursey’s gone, and Dex never told him, never had the stones to find his way from thoughts to actions? What if this is his last chance?

Too many questions. Too little time. Dex does the only thing he can think to do. He covers Nursey’s hand with his own and squeezes.

Nursey’s eyes pop wide open. He sucks in a little breath. Peers at their joined hands on Dex’s knee. Dex holds fast.

His gaze rises then, meets Dex’s. His lips purse into an O. An unasked question.

Dex nods.

Nursey bites his lip hard, but it’s not enough to keep down his smile. “Seriously?” he asks.

Dex nods again.

“I thought–” Half-laughing, half-sighing, Nursey looks at him with bright, alive eyes. “Well, I wasn’t even sure you liked me, Poindexter. I … wow. I sure as hell never thought you wanted me.”

“You’re an idiot,” Dex tells him pointedly. Because he is. What a fucking idiot, to be this obtuse for this long and scare Dex enough to force this out of him. “Of course I like you.”

“But… like that?” Nursey’s trolling him now, trying to drag the embarrassing words out of him.

But Dex is sopping wet and relieved and he just doesn’t care. “Yes, like that. Are we talking about this _now_?”

“Well, fuck, Poindexter.” God damn him, god damn that smile. Where the hell is the ambulance? “I guess I’m glad I fell in that river.”

“Don’t _say_ shit like that!” Dex’s last nerve goes off like a firecracker. “If you liked me, Nurse, you could have kissed me instead of going and nearly getting yourself killed! You’re a moron. Of course I’m into you. Why do you think I hang out with you, when you drive me out of my goddamn mind? Jesus.” He shivers hard. “Of course it’s you. It’s always been you.”

Nursey doesn’t answer. But his hand in Dex’s turns, and he curls his fingers around Dex’s. It feels good. It feels real. 

Dex finds it in himself, somehow, to smile.

And thank God, now he can hear sirens. The smile vanishes, and Dex looks daggers at Nursey. “Fine. Now you know. We’ll talk about it when we’re dried off and you’re sober.”

“Mm-mm.” Nursey shakes his head. “When I’m sober, first thing I am doing is kissing the shit out of you.”

“The hell? I just told you–” Dex makes a noise of frustration. He sets a mental reminder to punch Nursey in the face the next time he gets the chance.

Although it can probably wait until after they kiss.


	15. finger!kink

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> my porn-fu is lacking as of late, but here's an attempt at finger!kink
> 
> Bitty/Jack. Warning for pooooorn.

It starts, as so many things do, over food. Bitty’s just finished pouring a bowlful of cake batter into two round pans. He scrapes the sides with the spatula, trying to get the last of it into the pans.

“Save some for me,” Jack complains.

Bitty laughs. “You and your sweet tooth, Mr. Zimmermann. Fine.” He  passes Jack the bowl, a thick dripping layer of batter still running down one side.

Bitty expects him to grab a spoon, but Jack isn’t that patient. Instead, like a child, he runs his thumb over the edge, spooning up a dollop. He lifts his thumb to his mouth and sucks.

It’s just then that Bitty catches a look. He sees Jack’s mouth purse over his thumbpad, sees the digit disappear and sees Jack suck, and Bitty feels his cheeks erupt in flame. He makes a soft sound and shifts from foot to foot.

Innocent, Jack returns his hand to the bowl and drags up another bit of the sweet stuff. Bitty watches him with a suddenly dry mouth, his breaths coming shallow. That… shouldn’t be hot. But the way Jack’s fingers disappear, the way the tension goes into his cheeks and lips as he sucks…

Jack returns his fingers to the bowl. Half aflame, Bitty grabs his wrist. “Let me have a taste,” he says, and brings Jack’s batter-soaked finger to his lips.

Jack’s eyes widen. Bitty pulls Jack’s finger into his mouth and sucks off the batter, eyes on Jack’s the whole time. By the time he’s done, Jack’s blushing, too.

It doesn’t take them long to finish off the dishes and find their way into the bedroom as the cake bakes.

* * *

Another weekend, they’re at the movies, sharing a tub of popcorn. Bitty’s always been weak to movie theater popcorn, even with the cheap butter substitute that he should by all rights hate. The taste, however fake, reminds him of childhood – times when his dreams and his joy were unlimited, before the teasing and the bullying started, when he was just another starry-eyed kid. As the lights dim, he tosses a kernel at Jack, who opens his mouth too late. The kernel bounces off his chin. Bitty laughs.

As the movie progresses, Bitty becomes less and less conscious of the food and his habits. He takes fistful after fistful and finishes them off greedily, engrossed in what is happening onscreen. After each handful, Bitty brings his fingers to his mouth and sucks the extra salt and butter off, just like he did when he was a kid. He only half-realizes he’s doing it. He certainly doesn’t realize Jack is watching.

Another intense scene, another mouthful, another film of salt on his fingers. Bitty lifts his hand to his mouth.

Jack’s hand lands on his arm. “Bits.” There’s urgency in the whisper.   
Brought back to himself, Bitty brings his gaze to Jack’s eyes. The film is a bright glint in his pupils. “Hm?”

Jack tugs at his wrist.

The next minute, Jack’s mouth is around his index finger, tongue flickering over the tip. Bitty hisses and squirms in his seat. “Jack, that’s–” he starts to hiss, but then Jack is moving on to another finger, his eyes closed, his lips pursed. By the light of the big screen, he looks almost reverent.

And it feels – oh, Lord, it feels so good. The suction, the graze of Jack’s teeth over his fingerpad – the warm wetness of Jack’s tongue – each sensation zings through Bitty like electricity.

When Jack moves to a third finger, tastes, sucks and nibbles at it, Bitty has to suppress a moan. The movie’s forgotten, and Bitty’s world is narrowed down to the feel of Jack’s mouth, the look of him, the heat churning low in Bitty’s gut. The movie is long forgotten. Instead, Bitty’s consumed by his own set of images. Jack on his knees, mouth closed over Bitty’s fingers. Blue eyes turned up toward Bitty’s own. Jack kissing and nibbing at digit after digit as Bitty arches on the bed and–

When he pulls back his fingers, it’s with regret, but Bitty was as close as he’s ever been to coming in his pants.

He tries to redirect his attention to the movie, but he only half-cares. His fingers tingle and throb, and he has to close his hand into a fist just to contain the sensation. The presence of Jack next to him cannot be suppressed, though, and Bitty spends the rest of the movie acutely aware of him, the heat of him, the unspoken promise that hovers between them in a haze of heat.

* * *

Afterward, they wander back to Jack’s apartment, the distance between them feeling like a gaping wound. This is where life in the closet hurts the most. Bitty looks with some envy at a couple walking past them, arms slung around each other. The boy’s hand sits low on the girl’s hip, and she presses against him, giggles and turns her face up for a kiss. But Bitty and Jack – at least for now – have to wait. And the waiting is torture. How long until they’re back at Jack’s apartment? How long until Bitty can pull Jack into his arms, kiss that sweet tantalizing mouth, lift his hand to Jack’s lips and–

–and then they’re there.

Jack folds Bitty into an embrace and kisses him, his mouth and arms hot. “Bits,” he mumbles into the kiss, “back then– I wanted–”

“God, Jack, me too, me too, please,” Bitty babbles.

They run to the bedroom.

Shirtless, they sprawl out on the bed, kiss and kiss and kiss. The skin of Jack’s bare shoulders is warm, humming with life beneath Bitty’s palms. Jack caresses Bitty’s cheek. Bitty nuzzles into the touch, kissing at the heel of Jack’s hand. He can’t help but suck a little, pursing his lips around Jack’s skin, and Jack’s soft growl sinks into his bones, warm and rumbling, setting him vibrating.

“Jack,” he breathes, and lifts his fingers to Jack’s lips, pleading silently.

Jack nibbles on his fingertips. The sensation arcs up Bitty’s arm and down his spine, pure electricity. An “oh” escapes him, and he reaches down, eases his slacks down and grips himself with his free hand. Jack glances down, then sucks Bitty’s index finger into his mouth. The motion and his gaze are permission.

Bitty strokes. Jack sucks. It’s like lightning. Bitty cries out.

“Mm,” Jack hums around his finger. He laves his tongue along the length of it, pulls back, licks for a breathless second at the tip.

“More.” Bitty pants. “Jack, more.”

Jack takes in two fingers now, index and middle. He licks along and around them, drawing ribbons of wet warmth. When his tongue dips into the V between them, Bitty’s cry is sudden and loud. He’s stroking himself fiercely, caught up in waves of sensation. What is it about Jack’s mouth on his finger? There’s the analogy, of course – that Jack’s mouth could be on his cock – but that’s not all. There’s something basic about it, and raw, and dirty. Jack’s mouth is so sinful, so ardent as he nips and sucks. To think Bitty gets to feel it like this, control it like this. It sets every nerve sizzling.

“Ah,” he’s panting, shifting onto his knees and arching his back as he strokes himself. “Ah, Jack – honey, don’t stop–”

Jack’s answer is another “mmmm” as he takes Bitty’s fourth and fifth fingers into his mouth. His tongue is a zip of flame against the edge of Bitty’s pinky finger. Bitty curses and bites his lip. He’ll come too fast like this, and he wants – he’s hungry  – he wants.

“Jack,” he pants, holding the base of his cock fast, trying to keep the feelings at bay. “Give me– honey – I want –”

“Hm?” If Jack doesn’t stop sucking at his fingers like this, Bitty’s gone.

It takes effort, but Bitty pulls his hand back with a wrenching motion. His spit-slick hand closes around Jack’s wrist, and in another moment he’s pulled Jack’s hand to his mouth, sucking two fingers between his lips.

Jack’s reaction is immediate. “Ah– God, Bits–”

Bitty growls softly around Jack’s fingers. Oh, God, if having it done to him was amazing, doing it is a whole other dimension. Jack’s fingers taste amazing, salty and tangy, and Bitty relishes the feel of them, the specificity of knuckle and fingerpad and nail against his tongue. He presses close to Jack, straddling one thigh and leaning on his shoulder as he fists his own cock with vigor. Against his knee, he feels Jack’s free hand fall to start caressing his cock through his shorts.

The sensation and the situation are heady. Bitty, his mouth full of Jack’s fingers – now three instead of two – sucking greedily, climax building up deep in his balls and gut like a wave about to break – and Jack moaning and panting beside him, working his cock through his shorts. “Fuck, Bits– that feels – ahh,” Jack mumbles next to him.  

Bitty’s moan is muffled around Jack’s fingers. He pulls off them and meets Jack’s gaze. “Jack,” he says, knowing the agony is painted on his face. “Jack, I’m gonna–”

Jack kisses him soundly, their mouths wet and sloppy against each other. Bitty licks at his gtongue, then pulls back and forces Jack’s fingers – all four – into his mouth. Mouth stretched taut and full, with Jack’s taste on his tongue, he comes with a wrenching arch that breaks down into shudders. He sucks as hungrily as a child as he rides his orgasm through, shouting and then moaning hard around Jack’s fingers. His come pools onto Jack’s thigh, staining the edge of his shorts. Jack pants against him.

“Oh, God,” he breathes after letting go of Jack’s hand. “Oh, my Lord, Jack – that was – I never thought – that was hot.”

Jack’s answer is a moan. Bitty looks down. Jack’s still fisting his cock through his shorts. His face is tortured, his brow furrowed, and if he weren’t so beautiful in agony Bitty would feel terrible for him.

“Honey,” Bitty murmurs, “take those off.”

Jack nods and hurries to comply. Bitty eases off him and allows him to pull his shorts down over his thighs and knees, kicking it off the end of the bed. He’s gorgeous naked, his cock flushed and stiff, and Bitty’s hunger peaks again.

“Where do you want my mouth, sweetheart?” he purrs into Jack’s ear. “On your fingers again, or…?”

Jack looks down. Just for a second. It’s enough.

Bitty smiles and kisses him, sweet and soft. Then, he reaches out with come- and spit-sticky hands to grip Jack’s thighs, and lowers himself between them.


End file.
